Nickname

I was a secondary school teacher for four decades. When I first arrived in South Yorkshire, I was teaching at a big comprehensive school on the edge of a large mining village. The pit was still working then - bringing up black diamonds from far below the earth's surface. I could see one of the great spoil or slag heaps from my classroom window.

In those days, I did not own a television so I was only dimly aware of  a popular new TV drama series that appeared in the late seventies. Like many shows, it concerned itself with crime and clever detective work. The main protagonist was a character called Eddie Shoestring played by an actor called Trevor Eve. In fact, the show was called "Shoestring". For two or three years it was pretty popular.

School teachers are often given nicknames by the student body and it was widely agreed that I looked like Trevor Eve . Consequently my nickname became Shoestring or sometimes Bootlace. There are far worse nicknames I could have had  and so I tolerated it quite happily. It was never a problem and besides it was better than being called Shrek, Dragon Breath  or Paedo - nicknames that I overheard in connection with other teachers in my career.

In the autumn of 1980, I moved on to a different secondary school - this time in Sheffield's southern suburbs. At last, I thought, I will leave my nickname behind me but within a week of my arrival I was once again re-christened Shoestring though never directly to my face.

Have you ever had to suffer a nickname - one you hated or perhaps, like me, one that you didn't really mind?

from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/m2WkxOt

The Plaster For Most ills

 

Tim with Sitges friend 2018

Like most families, mine can be slightly unpredictable when arranging a meet. 

Someone is distracted and is late, someone wants to eat early, someone forgot the time, someone( like me) is invariably early. 

I’ve learned to go with the flow. 

We generally all get together when we need to.

Last night was my brother in laws birthday. We all arranged to meet at our usual table for 8.30 pm so I donned my second best I love Sheffield  T shirt and went out to a gay bar around the corner from La Santa Maria for an early drink beforehand .

Minutes later I was talking to Greta, a rather shopworn and heavily made up German lady in her seventies.

She was sat at the bar reading a Spanish magazine.

Initially I thought she was in drag but as it turned out darlings she was indeed a elderly Austrian former Opera Singer from Barcelona. 

All this information I gleaned moments after she referred to my T shirt 

“Sheffield…I sang there in the 1980s, It was a beautiful city as I recall” she sang out 

Now Sheffield, in the 1980s as anyone from the iron city would tell you , wasn’t very pretty at all and after a bit of banter I actually found out that Greta had in fact sang at the Grand Theatre in Leeds and had been a chorus singer on stage for over thirty years, most of it at the Opera houses in Barcelona and Valencia.

“I was never disciplined enough to be a good performer “ Greta confided “ Too much good living” 

She tapped her glass and I bought her a beer

“ it’s too hot for anything stronger” she confided and she waved amiably at a group of gay men who were getting up to leave their table all of whom waved back and blew her kisses.

“ The Gays love Opera! “ she explained. 

She chatted about Montserrat Caballé, who she said was always delightful to the “chorus folk” and talked fondly of her funeral which she said was supported by the Spanish Royals indeed.

I found her an absolutely delightful character and would have stayed longer if I hadn’t somewhere to go

When I stood to leave she asked me if I was meeting a young man and I told her I had family to catch up with

“ Ah family” she emoted wistfully, the bangles on her thin arms jangling loudly

“ The Plaster for most ills” 

And she waved me goodbye

I go back home tonight. 

It’s been a lovely 72 hours or so….and Greta was right…..family is the plaster for most ills in the world 

In the restaurant , The die hards proved that last night when we drank the last drinks of a honest evening

Sharing stories, until then untold, around the safe dinner table 

( written 0022 Monday 8th)

from Going Gently https://ift.tt/TPQCK5m

Killing Me Softly

 

As usual I’m sat at a table with my coffee.

For me, this is Sitges’ best time of day.

La Santa Maria Hotel has changed hands since we were all last year and the German Matriarch Uta who owned and oversaw everything has been replaced by a faceless manager from a chain of hotels.

The place has been streamlined and changes made, most noticeably. In the guise of the Maître d, who is now a 1980s dressed bundle of nerves with a quick temper and bad manners.

But breakfast time remains what I always remember it as being.

Cheese and sausage and scrambled eggs

Lovely coffee and 

Peace and quiet.

A Spanish version of Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly is playing on the radio and The famous Church of Bartomeu and Santa Tecla has rung out the quarter to nine chimes

This pleases me 

We are all talking last night of the significance of having a regular family holiday at the same resort in the same hotel when there are too many new places in the world to visit, and I would agree with that sentiment .

From this post covid year I intend to visit new places and make new experiences 

But for a few days in a blistering August, it’s still lovely to be catching up with the familiar and with family. 

To touch base over coffee and drinks 

To remember and to celebrate.

And With the swift’s screaming in their fish shoal circles around the Town’s Church tower, it’s easy to realise that most things don’t change too much.

from Going Gently https://ift.tt/cHf3bTx